Tag Archives: feet

Dragging My Feet….

don't panicYou know when you wake up with a brand spanking-new MS symptom?

That heart-stopping moment when all your worst fears come crashing in on you?

Yup. This happened last week. A normal morning – coffee, cat, catch-up with paperwork, countdown to waking The Teenager.

Except that morning was different. My foot refused to play fair. It gave up the ghost, schlepping behind me like a stroppy Teenager (and boy, do I have experience of that).

Panic rose and I quelled it. The next day, same thing. And the next. A new symptom. Probably every person with MS’s worst nightmare.

I decided to beat it at it’s own game, determinedly lifting the naughty foot with every step. Only problem was, I looked ever so slightly odd. Exaggerated. Like I was walking in slow motion to the ‘Chariots of Fire’ theme tune.

I ran it past the MS nurse (the problem, not my foot) but declined an appointment. ‘I’ll be fine!’. I ran it past the chiropractor who urged me to call the MS team. ‘I’ll be fine!’ I put it out my mind. But it stayed and I dragged my foot round the house. Finally, I took the offered appointment.

What’s worse? Being told it may be a relapse or it may not be a relapse? It doesn’t really matter either way, I won’t take any more steroids. I can’t bear the thought of waking up at 2am and having a strong compulsion to dust all the lightbulbs and clean the skirting boards, such is the bizarre energy those tiny tablets give me. Plus they destroy taste buds. And I pack on the weight no matter how many edamame beans I eat.

So I am in a kind of weird limbo. I worry that the endless relapses have found a sneaky way through the Campath treatment I had. I worry about my mobility – the defining point of being accepted as ‘relatively normal’ within societal boundaries.

Above all, my dodgy, annoying, schlepping foot has dominated the last week. I am panicking. Ever so slightly.

Tagged , , , , ,

Dodgy Hands and Wonky Feet

dodgy hands and wonky feetI have been bouncing off the walls the last couple of days. Quite literally. It started in work, where I walked into the kitchen door three times. Just for good measure, my hands have decided to suddenly let go of things at random or not grasp them at all and my feet aren’t working properly.

I had a day off work yesterday, but rather than hiding away with Jeremy Kyle and the Loose Women, I pushed myself out the house and went off for some retail therapy and a determination not to let the symptoms get the better of me. Bad idea?

It started so well. I navigated the supermarket, dodging the Jenga towers of Christmas chocolate tins and super-value loo roll packs. Went to pick up my newspaper and failed four times. Looking around me, I pretended I meant to do it, undecided as I surely was about which paper to choose. Think it worked. Got to the checkout where the terminally bored girl sighed loudly as I fumbled with my purse. And fumbled. Couldn’t open the darn zip or find my loyalty card.

Leaving with a heavy bag of shopping, I stumbled, knocked into the automatic doors and dropped my keys. Undefeated, and after being helped by the Big Issue seller standing outside, I made my way to the coffee shop. Deep breath. Order a coffee and a poppy seed cake for being so brave. Turn round with my tray, shopping bag heaved onto my shoulder. I can definitely do this. But somehow, within five minutes, a three-prams-and-a-double-buggy assault course had formed behind me. And the table I wanted was past them. Ok. Co-ordinate feet, hold on to the tray very, very tightly and do not bounce off the cake cabinet.

I must have looked distinctly demented and the mothers gripped their pram handles a little tighter. But I made it. I ate my cake, drank my coffee and watched the world go by. And when I got up to leave, I didn’t knock anything off the table or drop my bags. But someone had definitely moved the door….


Tagged , , , , ,